


Maybe it is not  love yet, but it has a potential to be some day.

by LittleBittyPrettyOne



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Grantaire Ship Week, M/M, R Ship Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2018-01-01 04:44:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1040482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleBittyPrettyOne/pseuds/LittleBittyPrettyOne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If they had a choice they would fall in love with each other.<br/>It’s a statement formulated long before their lips met in frantic, sloppy kiss and the red paint got mixed with the blue one resulting in different shades of purple slopped all over their bodies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe it is not  love yet, but it has a potential to be some day.

If they had a choice they would fall in love with each other.

It’s a statement formulated long before their lips met in frantic, sloppy kiss and the red paint got mixed with the blue one resulting in different shades of purple slopped all over their bodies. Those words had been said months before they tried to tear each other apart with hands and lips and moans, before any of them let himself think that maybe it is possible after all.

They should be destructive together, Grantaire knows it. They’re both addicts, thought different ways.

There are days Feuilly will smoke one cigarette after another, drinking one coffee after another, each one stronger than the one before. There are days when he looks like he is going to pass out any minute from tiredness and still he is somehow sitting there in Musain, listening to Enjolras’ plan and correcting him once in a while or discussing one or another issue with Combeferre.

There are also days when Grantaire drinks his coffee more spiced than usual or the blank liquid everyone assumes is water makes his face twist every time he takes a sip from the bottle. There are days when he is more sarcastic than usual, his comments more acrid, answers sharper.

There are days when they’re sitting in front of each other and the amount of butts spilling out of old, earthen ashtray matches the amount of empty glasses at the end of the table. There are days when the floor is covered in pieces of unfinished drawings and fragments of glass.

Those are bad days, but somehow they never broke them. Those days used to happen more often, Feuilly thinks, looking outside the window, cigarette fixed between his fingers. It’s his third one, he observes, and it’s already noon. It’s a progress, but it’s not like he is trying so it doesn’t really matter.

 He rolls the smoke on his tongue, thinking that it is a good thing, that they don’t  do that anymore much. He’s always liked those other days better.

The days filled with Grantaire’s laugh, the honestly happy one Feuilly didn’t know R was capable of. They are days when they will talk about baroque paintings for hours before falling asleep on ginger’s old couch, that pretends to be also a bed.

There are days when Grantaire will sneak Feuilly into the class in the Art Building, where the light is the best in very early morning hours which makes high chance no one is there yet and they will be painting together in relaxing silence until the modern art teacher will come and with not very surprised expression tell them that only students have permission to being in the building, before walking away.

There are days when the tattoo shop is almost empty and it should drive Feuilly crazy, but it doesn’t anymore, because those days Grantaire comes over and props himself on the counter filling the time with the stories of people he passed on his way there.

Maybe it’s just his imagination or desire, but sometimes Feuilly catches Grantaire’s eyes moving down his body and he can swear this is the same way they used to drift over Enjolras. He finds himself dreaming about the icy blue eyes, instead of the navy blue and the black hair, his hands are clinging to desperately are much shorter than they used to be in his fantasies.

Grantaire thinks some mornings he would like to stay like this forever with Feuilly tugged against his side with mouth slightly parted and expression fully calm and relaxed for once. And maybe there are more oranges and browns than reds and gold on his canvases, but the only person who really notices it is the modern art teacher, who doesn’t do anything more about it than giving him knowing looks.

Maybe it wasn’t a choice after all and maybe it’s not love, not yet, but they both can feel in the gentle touches and soft moans that it has every potential to be some day.

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently it's a drabble.  
> I guess I'm not capable of writing something longer, though I'm working on it.  
> Anyway, it's my contribution to 'R ship week".  
> I hope you liked it and if you did leave me kudo.  
> And If you didn't like it or only partly liked it please let me know why.


End file.
